


Leitmotif

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Immortal (The Old Guard), Art, Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Blow Jobs, Character Study, Condoms, Deepthroating, Embedded Images, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Whump, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani-centric, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Modern Era, Old Guard Big Bang 2021, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Photographer Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Photography, Plotty, Rimming, Romance, Slow Burn, Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29499867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Joe half-scoffs, half-laughs, gaze flitting towards a sparrow landing on a nearby telephone post. "I'll explain it to you later," though there won't be a later. Obviously. But it's something to say."Have coffee. With me," Nicky adds, rather unnecessarily.Joe's brain hiccups. "What." Then, functional brain cells catching up, he clears his throat to say, "I could do with some coffee." Smooth.Or, Joe is ostensibly on holiday, dealing with burnout and avoiding his gallery agent. Not so much running away as trying to find himself. He finds Nicky instead.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 84
Kudos: 285
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	Leitmotif

**Author's Note:**

> My incredibly patient artist, Ali (Tumblr: [@here-for-a-jape](https://here-for-a-jape.tumblr.com/)), created some brilliant art that I will now proceed to stare at for another five hours, thank you and goodnight. (You will find it below! <3 <3 <3)
> 
> Oh, my eternal thanks of course to Laz, V, and Melly—you know why!

An indeterminate length of time after they cross the border into Belgium Joe cracks open his eyes to the warm darkness of streetlights and the realisation that the same handful of songs has been playing for, according to his phone's display, approximately four hours.

He's never had any particularly strong feelings about Eurovision music other than a low-level disinterest, but, as he falls back asleep beneath his jeans jacket acting as a makeshift blanket, he makes his peace with knowing at least a handful of them must have permanently imprinted themselves from the in-vehicle stereo onto his brain.

The FlixBus drives on.

*

As it rounds into what is presumably the suburbs leading into the city, the train bobs along, almost from side to side, veritably _listing_. It momentarily tosses Joe into the side of his rucksack, which has been occupying the seat next to him by the window. His compartment is empty but for himself, and he hasn't bothered placing it back in the overhead luggage rack after retrieving his book. The book he hasn't been reading, not really. The sun is on the side opposite his compartment, and, from an angle, the train's shadow appears to be carrying it forward.

His sketchbook, unlike his book, sits discarded on the empty seat across from him, in full view and possibly judging him, Joe hasn't decided yet. The truth of the matter is, he hasn't touched it at all after the first twenty minutes after leaving the station, and then only to hold it awkwardly, flip its pages, debate which pencil to extract from his bag, until, finally, no pencil was necessary.

Can an object judge you? Decidedly, if one could, then Joe will never encounter one doing it quite as harshly.

Better than his camera. Everything looks like nothing much at all through the viewfinder anymore, so he's been touching his Nikon less and less in the past three days, regardless of everything he _could_ have been capturing on the road. No point. As much as he can, he avoids thinking about it. It doesn't exactly help, but out of sight, out of mind, etcetera. Add to that the newly-found guilt of the empty sketchbook, and he's all set to bury the old guilt of the unused camera until probably upon arriving back home when he won't be able to put it off any longer. Compartmentalising guilt isn't a skill he ever thought he'd have, much less excel at, but he has yet to find his way around it.

It's at about this point that he realises he missed his chance at a nap and perhaps quieting his brain, and that he hardly has time to watch the countryside melting into the first few buildings that make up the city before they'll be arriving at the last stop.

Generally, Joe likes train stations—whether they're bustling with activity or pretty much deserted. Presently, he stands to stretch in the middle of his compartment, feeling every vibration as his train slows, reaching a very decisive halt by a rather large and very deserted platform. Granted, it _is_ just shy of eight in the morning, but he would have thought there would be more movement even at this hour. Parallel to his, the other platforms seem marginally more populated, though not by much.

He dons his jacket and packs his book. He grabs his luggage and spares a moment to stare at his abandoned sketchbook before picking it up with a heavy sigh and making his way from train to platform.

The morning is crisp and bright.

Despite popular belief, Joe can appreciate the handiness of a smartphone camera. Doesn't see the need for his best equipment to capture light and shadow in a moment he plans to keep only for himself. But a stray thought impedes his reaching for it to capture the clouds or the station clock hanging above the end of the platform, or even the sleepy-looking people waiting for him to alight before climbing the pair of metal stairs breaching the gap between platform and train.

_What's the point?_

He's had this thought before. However, he needs to retrieve his phone to check his itinerary.

He doesn't think about the phone's camera at all.

*

Walking from the train station to his hostel is not only utterly absurd but also obviously irritating should he get lost, but his phone's GPS assures him he's meant to essentially start walking a straight line up the boulevard and then turn a stark right at the big roundabout.

To his surprise, he manages to not only not get lost at all, but he's only ten minutes over his GPS's initial estimation. Granted, said ten minutes are mostly wasted circling around the same pair of buildings and one street, trying to find the entrance to his hostel, before he sorts it out that it's the narrow door he's been discounting from the onset.

Checking in takes around three minutes, give or take, the staff perfectly accommodating in English, his room paid for during booking. With the sort of idle disinterest Joe can get behind, the details in his passport get checked, but the man introducing himself as Alex seems much more concerned with what Joe assumes is the hostel's resident cat making a valiant effort to jump onto the counter from on top of a nearby bookshelf. The fact that the second receptionist, whose name tag reads Teresa, manages to both catch their cat midleap and ask Joe to follow her to his room is either a mid-morning sleep deprivation hallucination or quite impressive.

Shouldering his rucksack, Joe decides it's the sort of thing he should ponder only after he's had at least one sizeable coffee. And possibly brushed his teeth.

*

Two days of wandering around, then he's due to board the same train that got him here to begin with. How little is too much time?

Deciding not to make any plan due to the likelihood he wouldn't observe them anyway sounded brilliant when he first booked his trip, but, sometime in the last days before his holiday was due to begin, following a week and a half of what he can now affectionately refer to as procrastination at its finest and eschewing attempts from Andy to convince him to postpone his expo to next year, Joe decided that, while it was entirely fair he shouldn't expect to remain unaffected by one thing or another which may draw him away from his plans, perhaps he should get _actual_ plans from which to be parted.

The idea of wandering about without anything even remotely close to an itinerary only sounds fantastic until you have to find a way to fill two days in a country where you don't speak the language. Moreover, as much as he might enjoy going off on his own across half of Europe, he still needs to catch his flight back home.

He exits the shower after a delicious fifteen minutes he feels only mildly guilty about, finding he has one message and one e-mail from Upstream. As long as Andy isn't ringing in from Amsterdam, he decides on the spot, he's technically on a planned holiday and not required to answer any business communications. He doesn't dwell on how the text is probably meant to soften whatever the official e-mail contains.

Or so he tells himself twice in quick succession, before rifling through his bags for a pair of nice dress shorts and the least wrinkled shirt not buried at the bottom of his luggage. Although he has a few hours' worth of pretty buildings and possibly interesting art to look at until he stumbles onto a place which serves a good lunch, his first stop has to be for strong coffee and the sweetest pastry item he can find within a radius of a kilometre.

*

However silly he might feel, Joe dutifully double-checks the date, but, no. It truly is this crowded even at midday on a Tuesday in the city centre. Unfortunately, he can't blame the lack of caffeine for what his eyes are telling him.

By virtue of his GPS he had little trouble in procuring decent coffee, bottled water and an apple strudel, before returning to the hostel, the only reference point he has. Now, he wonders at the truly obscene amount of traffic and whether it's normal. Decides walking around with his headphones on in public is perhaps inadvisable for safety reasons.

Another thought, towards going upstairs and retrieving his sketchbook, dissipates relatively quickly.

From here, he dutifully follows the instructions he finds online on how to reach a small ethnography museum Google assures him he can visit in less than an hour. It takes him thirty minutes, and that's being generous.

He takes his time returning to unpack and wash for Zuhr, but he still ends up with time aplenty. However, he's not going to pretend he's not happy he isn't battling public transportation anymore. He's particularly thankful for the near constant hot water.

He does decide to change into the most casual clothing he owns that can fare well under twenty-something degrees in the shade, which would be strange for May in the literal mountains, were it not for his weather app assuring him early afternoon might just turn into an oven. When he does find his way to an old church which burned many centuries ago boasting a surprisingly well-maintained Gothic interior by all accounts, the queue to view the inside circles around the next building over, and, considering the hot day is already gearing up towards scorching, Joe gets out of the sun without any hesitation. He's comfortable _now_ in running shorts and a loose running vest, but the sky is light blue and the concrete is already starting to sizzle.

He downs his first bottle of water, thankful he slathered himself in sunscreen earlier, though his camera bag threatens to slip down his shoulder and sticks to his back through his shirt when he drapes it across his chest.

The Nikon is both a brilliant idea and the worst thing he could have done. (Sitting put in his room would have been _the_ best thing, really, but that ship has already sailed.)

No one really stops him unless it's to ask him in languages he doesn't understand if he's taking pictures to sell. But, even though there's a spark of interest when he asks them to switch to English, it quickly fizzles out once he has to announce that's not what he's doing. (Art, it seems, doesn't stand a chance against casual capitalism.) Smiling seems to annoy whoever walked up to him even more than responding in the negative does, but they quickly move on, leaving Joe to take the odd aimless photograph in relative peace.

A group of what he can only assume are secondary school teens giggling behind their hands as they send a representative to ask him how he's liking the country so far morphs into another and another, and Joe realises he needs to find a more touristy place than, apparently, across the street from a school during a prolonged midday break.

Back in the midst of the crowds of eager tourists where the market should be, though it does not seem to function on a Tuesday, he gravitates towards the fountain in the middle, surrounded by benches, with the occasional decorative item that turns out to be sculptures from local artists. Tempted though he might be to simply walk from one piece to another and read the tiny bit of English to the side describing each, he's been falling into a rhythm with his Nikon, tentatively unhurried in a way he hasn't felt for far longer than he'd like to admit. At ease with it in his hands. Unburdened. He doesn't want to overthink. He doesn't want to return to an afternoon of pacing his room, staring at blank paper.

Obviously watching the people around him, much less holding a bulky camera, earns him lingering looks ranging from interested to mildly suspicious to affronted. Joe mediates by keeping the viewfinder nearby even when he's taking a breather. At least the tourists don't approach him with the intent of asking him about the wares he's peddling anymore.

He's killing a few hundred frames at once because he can, though tentatively, as if the lens is at any second on the precipice of recoiling, develop a mind of its own and turn on him. He tells himself he could do a thousand, no thought for composition, and it wouldn't matter, because he's on holiday and he doesn't have to _keep_ anything he shoots. Could throw the SD card away, flick it into the grate at his feet or out into traffic.

But within the hour he fiddles more and more with the settings; he begins to scan the crowds for faces, objects, patterns and textures. No idea what he's going to find, or even what this search is for exactly, other than what he's always wanted to capture—something he himself can't look away from.

The search itself has never been the _problem_ , until it was. Is. Because he doesn't know that he'll see it when he _should_ , this mythical thing he should be capturing. Even though he doesn't remember ever feeling this terror until recently.

Instead, he glances down, away from every person and every new thing surrounding him, to watch his trainers, the colour an off-white, scuffed on the sides, hot cobblestones beneath his soles wet-looking where the sun shines off their smoothest corners. He adjusts the settings and snaps a dozen frames. Reminds himself the delete button is an option.

Time passes strangely, partially because of the altitude, mostly due to the stream of people. He checks the time twice in what he believes is only an hour at most, but ends up being closer to two. Checks the weather for tomorrow, and decides that he should take advantage of an early start in the morning, which is not a thought he's had in _weeks_. Lifts his eyes, but only for a second, his hand slipping on his phone, his head all of a sudden achey.

Must be from the sun, his second bottle of water as yet untouched, and when the sun does hide for an instant in the clouds and the air gets blue-tinged, he looks back up, pocketing his phone, and they see each other, as close or as far apart as any two strangers in the street could be, eyes on each other as if already in sync.

*

He's staring. For a moment, he doesn't realise that's what he's doing. Then he glances strategically away, seeking out another point of focus, successful but for a stray thought: _His eyes burn like fiery comets._ That is, if fire were ever that particular shade of blue-green. Which it isn't.

It's also more than likely, at this point surely near enough confirmation, that Joe has been out in the sun for too long.

He never brings his sunglasses when he's taking photographs. Glancing back reveals the stranger doesn't have a pair hanging in sight either. As he approaches, the skin around his eyes looks temptingly delicate.

Before his brain has caught up with the proceedings, Joe hears himself say, "Hey." Something in his tone must read tentatively friendly rather than rudely intrusive, because, although his shoulders visibly tense and his spine straightens when he must have been slouching before, the stranger actually stops a short distance away. Joe's fingers tighten on the frame of his camera and he licks his dry lips, suddenly self-conscious.

As he walks to where the stranger is still standing, regarding him curiously, he swipes his thumbs incessantly across the digital display and hopes he won't give his uncertainty away with that one gesture. Asking people on the street to take their photograph yields much better results when you're not telegraphing as much nervousness as Joe is currently feeling for no apparent reason.

Before Joe can start, the stranger says, "Hello? English?" He has an accent, which Joe is straight away certain must be Italian. It leaves him with the option of either English or stumbling around in what he recalls of the dubbed version of _The Lion King_ he used to watch on repeat on VHS.

Joe nods. Says, "Do you mind if I take your picture?" lifting his camera as if he needs proof there's actual photography involved in the request. The stranger blinks. His breath may or may not sharpen acutely, gaze equally cutting from one moment to the next.

About the time Joe's considering taking his words back and making a discreet retreat to the other side of the fountain, the stranger says, "Nicky."

His brain sort of stumbles on the unfamiliar word. Modesty aside, Joe considers himself far smoother usually, but instead of a polite _excuse me_ , he comes out with, "What?"

Which causes his brain to stumble yet again, and he grimaces.

They both stand exactly in place for a long moment.

"My name is Nicky," Nicky says deliberately, extending his hand for Joe to shake, who takes it while nodding, "Right, of course," half-talking over him because _of course_ it's his name.

It's probably worth nothing to attempt to hide his flushing face, so Joe doesn't even try.

"Joe." He shakes Nicky's hand carefully as they stare at each other. He doesn't think he imagines the amusement he sees. Granted, it's entirely warranted.

Nicky takes pity on him. "A stranger on the street asking for my picture is a little, uh, strange. I think exchanging names is better."

"Fair," he smiles, and Nicky amusement slides right off into a blankly polite expression. Clearing his throat, Joe again asks, "May I?"

Nicky nods, no hesitation. Doesn't ask Joe to explain his request, which, in Joe's experience, people almost always do.

Bringing his eye to the viewfinder, Joe steps back until he's got him framed loosely, adjusting the zoom. All clouds decide in that moment to part, and he has to lower the ISO again, but Nicky doesn't grow bored and shuffle away. Doesn't seem to be doing anything at all other than existing. Joe doesn't ask him to pose, and it doesn't seem to occur to him to do so, simply standing, limbs loose, head vaguely tilted and seeming slightly curious, if that.

For Joe, it's all of a sudden similar to falling into a pair of shoes he's worn for ages, automatic movements that never feel mechanical. He doesn't know how many frames he takes; doesn't actually care. The numbers never used to be important, not since he could purchase the best for himself, limited only by the time available for him to use within a day.

Upon realising he's been at it for a good chunk of time, he lowers the camera finally and packs it away, retrieving his water. His watch says it's been half an hour. Joe doesn't want to consider asking for more.

"Did you get what you needed?"

Joe starts, but he downs the bottle and pockets it for later disposal. It affords him a few seconds.

"I don't know."

Only now does he notice Nicky looks flushed as if he's been out for hours and hours in the sun, lips chapped, his rucksack heavy-looking. A cold shiver runs down Joe's back.

Before he can apologise for taking up so much of Nicky's time, probably a tourist like Joe himself, he asks, "Do you ever get what you need, then?"

 _Ah._ Joe stops.

"Art has always been there, nothing hidden. The trick is to see it all. I prefer the camera to see."

Nicky blinks, lips curling, not so much in a smile or a grimace, as a nervous tick of sorts. He touches the knuckles on his index finger and his thumb to his bottom lip for the briefest of moments, a gesture Joe wants to capture. He doesn't. That moment is over, even though his fingers twitch for a button to press so he can _snap snap snap_.

Instead, Joe half-scoffs, half-laughs, gaze flitting towards a sparrow landing on a nearby telephone post. "I'll explain it to you later," though there won't be a later. Obviously. But it's something to say.

"Have coffee. With me," Nicky adds, rather unnecessarily.

Joe's brain hiccups. "What." Then, functional brain cells catching up, he clears his throat to say, "I could do with some coffee." Smooth.

*

Although perfectly adequate options are at every step, Nicky guides him to a bistro he discovered for breakfast the morning before, and they're lucky to find a free table by large French windows a metre above the street below, a long cycle rack and a row of pink flowers right outside.

Upon entering the bistro, Joe discovered to his absolute pleasure that they were serving a full menu, and, upon being assured the kitchen was stocked, it turned into less of an odd coffee break between two strangers and more into getting some actual food inside his stomach.

"Coffee, yes, but I've had only a strudel today." He grimaces.

Nicky's judgement is swift to come and just as quick to leave. "I, too, am starving. Breakfast was many hours ago."

Joe has to get back for Asr. Fortunately, they must be the only ones still ordering lunch at this hour, and their food comes quickly, steaming and delicious. Between the soup and the biggest bowl of stew he's ever been served outside of his parents' house, he has the first meal of the last few days not consisting of semi-frozen reheated nonsense or protein bars.

As unusual as this all is, at least he feels less as if his brain might crawl out of his ears. This has the unintended effect of not allowing them to have much of a conversation beyond complementing the food and asking each other if they require more water or extra bread.

Midway through the meal, he scowls defensively against a patch of sunshine which has been slowly migrating upwards throughout his devouring his stew from the middle of his chest to a harsh line down his face, and Nicky only snorts and shrugs as Joe shifts around in his seat to avoid it.

As their server takes their empty plates away and they wait for the coffee they were meant to have to begin with, Nicky leans on his elbows and squints. "You're an artist."

It's the sort of statement that doesn't typically require a reply, but Nicky is staring at him expectantly. "Yes." He leans back in his seat, seemingly satisfied, and Joe follows suit, exhaling as if he's passed some great interrogation.

"A photographer," he adds, a little unnecessarily. Nicky simply nods.

"Asking strangers like me for a picture is something you do often?" His face is serene. Joe is immediately suspicious.

"You're special." He says it with enough snark and a strategic roll of his eyes that no one could believe it, but attaches a gentle smile at the end to soften it, to turn it around on itself. He doesn't know if he means the snark, but it's important that Nicky knows he doesn't.

"You're on holiday, yes?"

At home, he reminds himself, he has Andy, who has proven time and time again that the gallery will never become a priority to the detriment of her friends and family. But Andy might care as much as he cares for her, but the history between them is too long and winding, twisted around itself to the point where they're _too_ self-aware of how well they know each other. Which means objectivity isn't an option, not truly.

It occurs to him, thunderbolt through the skull sort of quick, that this is _precisely_ the type of situation a stranger off the street could weigh in on.

They don't know each other; they'll _never_ know each other. It's likely that, once their plates are collected and the bill is paid, they'll never see each other again.

"I'm on holiday," he crosses his arms across his chest, gripping at his himself loosely, "and I'm supposed to _rest_ , anywhere away from Amsterdam, but the truth," he says carefully, "is that I haven't finished a piece I've been happy with in," and here he trails off, genuinely unsure, "a long time. It's been a long time." He blinks, a little overwhelmed. Sips his coffee, then moves his elbows to the table. "Your photos might end up binned." He gives a small shrug.

Nicky seems to echo it. "I don't mind."

"Most people do."

Another shrug.

They don't say anymore.

"You're on holiday, too?" His coffee is almost gone, but he wants to _talk_ all of a sudden. Misses words. In his pocket, his phone makes a noise they both ignore.

"I'm... yes. I'm waiting for news. And a cousin, a distant cousin, invited me on holiday while I waited." Joe cocks his head inquiringly. "Ah! I finished my doctorate, so I am waiting and waiting and _waiting_ to see who will have me next." He sounds somewhere between self-deprecating and frustrated. Joe thinks he can relate, to some degree. Nicky waves him off. "Eh, I'll know for sure soon enough. The wait is the longest. And I find I prefer this to Genova, so, uh." He shrugs, as if there's nothing more to say.

Perhaps there isn't. As simple as "I cannot create" and "you will have to wait for your life to continue".

"Are you keeping time?"

It takes Joe completely out of his thoughts. "What? Uh. Pardon?"

"You are staring at your watch." Nicky nods in the general direction of his left wrist, which happens to be more the general direction of Joe himself with the way he's sitting. "You have been staring at your watch this whole time."

"All right," Joe eventually says, deliberate and lingering. "All right." Quicker, returning to the pace of their exchange. "I am, as you say, keeping time." It doesn't sound accusatory, merely curious questioning.

"Where are you keeping it?" Nicky's cheeks twitch, as if stifling a smile or a grin threatening to escape.

Joe rolls his eyes, but leans forward, elbows barely at the edge of their table. "Locked away," he replies tartly. "For my own nefarious purposes," he adds, a little slyly, as if he's joking with someone other than a complete stranger, the only designation he dares come back to. But, then, Nicky finally does laugh, fully, freely.

Idly, Joe wonders whether a sketch in pencil, inked in afterwards, would be better than a photograph. It's not a thought he has often. It would almost shock him if he weren't already unsettled altogether.

"A minute of silence for the death of humour," Nicky pronounces.

"True silence? There's no such thing here." He nods at the street, and what he believes is the sparrow which has been serenading them for the past ten minutes. Inside the bistro, jazz plays gently over the speakers, underlying various conversations happening at every table.

"Empty your head," Nicky counters.

"All right. That's my cue to finally keep time the right way, then," and Nicky nods, closing his mouth deliberately with a click.

For the length of a minute Joe glaces between his wrist, now set on the table, the little hand moving around itself, and Nicky's face, head empty, no thoughts but for how bright Nicky's eyes are as he stares right back. Joyful like it's all a game.

It's the most tense silence of Joe's life, and he loves every second of it.

Once it's over, he downs his coffee. The dregs taste bitter. He sips his water.

"And after this, back to Genova to wait?" He's not fishing for any specific information, but he's delaying the last sip of Nicky's coffee, the last of Joe's water, the bill, the walk back to the hostel.

"I moved to Roma." He sighs, looking out at the bike racks. Or perhaps the little flowers. "I moved because I believed Roma meant freedom from _everything_ in Genova, but I discovered the cage was bigger." He glances back. "I'll go back for my books, but nothing more."

"Do you miss it? Genova, where you're from?"

Gazing to the side again, jaw clenching minutely, Nicky says, "Yes. I miss it." He glances up and smiles. "But I won't go back. Not at all. There, there isn't anything for me."

Part of him knows he's toeing the line into prying, but Nicky's opened up a door, left it cracked, and Joe wants to peek in for another few minutes, what's left of their afternoon. "Are you staying here?"

Frowning, Nicky chews on the inside of his cheek for a long moment. "The cousin I mentioned, he's on the coast. This is a week of holiday _away from the holiday_ , you might say. Silly. But the truth is I don't know for sure. I am applying to every university that will have me."

"Ah."

"I even applied to some in your city, but I received a standard reply and nothing after," he smirks.

Looking him up and down, comically leering to an absurd degree, Joe shrugs carelessly. "We're very discerning there," he says, adding a quick wink for good measure.

Nicky snorts, surprise flickering across his face, likely more at himself for laughing, but he ends up looking pleasantly charmed. Yeah, Joe can be smooth.

"How about you?" Nicky asks once, a small smile still playing at his lips.

"Uh. I'm leaving. The day after tomorrow, actually," Joe says.

"Oh," Nicky says. His face is very blank. Joe's tongue is too heavy in his own mouth, as if he might swallow it down with his next breath. "Short holiday, then?"

Joe nods. He chews his lip and watches Nicky do the same before calling for the bill.

"You have to return now, yes?"

Joe knows that he does. He's vaguely annoyed with himself for once again nodding, though he can't quite pinpoint why, but he busies himself with digging out his wallet from his pocket while Nicky downs his coffee and does the same.

Afterwards, they part outside, both shuffling their feet. "My hostel," Joe says on a vague wave behind him in what he believes is the general direction he came from. Nicky nods.

"I have an errand," Nicky explains, which doesn't mean anything to Joe other than he presumably has something he's meant to be doing, otherwise he would be walking Joe to his room. Or not this at all, and Joe is simply projecting. Idle, useless thinking. Off-centre and pointless. "But thank you for the coffee."

Are they meant to shake hands?

They don't. They half-smile at each other, and Joe turns on his heels, the sun at his back.

On the way back to his hostel, sparrows are playing on every lawn and in every tree lining the streets and parks.

*

Unsurprisingly, his room at the hostel is just as he left it. Besides it being the only couple's room, it's the only one which has an ensuite, for which Joe is particularly glad, especially when he spots new clean towels on the newly-made bed.

When he booked the room Joe assumed straight away, and for good reason, that it would be annoying to share a tight space with a complete stranger with his uncertain schedule, and the possibility of having to sidestep varied awkward conversations has never sounded as tiring. Plus, he knows he certainly appreciates a large bed to fall asleep in, and it's not as if it's a particularly large room anyway. In fact, his bedroom at home has far more walking space even with three times as many pieces of furniture.

After another thorough shower, during which he half-seriously contemplated his odds of returning to the bistro and finding Nicky still in its general vicinity, Joe passes a relatively average late afternoon, not that unusual from his weekdays at home. Although he hasn't had a reason to flip through hundreds of photographs in one sitting since probably March, he falls into an easy rhythm that lasts until prayer. He retrieves two cereal bars from his rucksack and downs another bottle of water, walking around the room as he decides that the one thing he is genuinely excited for, even beyond the water temperature, is the tiny balcony overlooking the main street.

It occurs to him he probably should have checked for visibility from the street when he was outside earlier to air out his shoes, but no one seemed to have spotted him, or, at least, no one was bothered by a man in mesh shorts. He contemplates putting on a shirt before drawing back the curtains, but it's been a scorching day. No one could expect more than joggers at the end of a day like today.

The city might be small, but it lights up almost delicately. Evening, however, doesn't seem to have slowed incoming traffic any. As he stares out into the street, his eye is drawn to the building across from the hostel, this one a hotel boasting a gym and various recreational facilities, and from there towards its entrance. And Joe might not have excellent sight, but it's decent enough to spot Nicky, of all people, heading decidedly inside.

He knows he shouldn't. He _knows_.It's not even a fucking question. But just as instantly as he said that hey earlier he calls out his name now, loudly, from the chest.

He doesn't have long to wait until Nicky spots him as well.

"Joe?" he calls back.

They stand, unmoving, Joe on his little balcony, Nicky across the street, probably returning from a late supper, the rucksack from earlier at his back, likely eager to turn in for the night.

"I'll come down," Joe yells out, definitely louder than he should, but the words tumble out in quick succession. Nicky nods. From this distance, he looks almost eager. Joe isn't remotely sure what he's doing.

He fishes put a clean shirt from his rucksack, the sketchbook falling out the side. He leaves it. The joggers he put on after his shower have seen better days: the gunmetal grey colour faded around the knees, the sides frayed and at least one hole in at least one of the pockets. However, he's irrationality afraid Nicky will change his mind if he dawdles further. Will return to his anonymous room.

He pushes his bare feet inside his unlaced trainers and practically springs from his room, grabbing the cheap keycard on his way out. He makes a valiant attempt at not jumping the stairs three at a time, if only because there are normal people still about.

Outside, the street is even more crowded than he's seen it since he arrived. Nicky is already waiting for him at the corner. It's reasonable he, too, similarly to Joe that morning, wasn't sure about the exact entrance to the hostel. He watches him spot Joe, and he could be imagining things. That is, it could be the day out in the sun, hours of walking around taking in his surroundings. It could be a hundred different things making him tired and imagining things, but, as Nicky approaches, he never for an instant looks anything but excited. Not in any way that Joe could put his finger on. Simply put, he looks _bright_.

Maybe Joe genuinely does need to lay down again. Sleep. Sleep the day away entirely.

"You came down," Nicky says.

Joe thinks about how he didn't jump down an improbable amount of stairs. He swallows around a lump of air caught in his throat. Or perhaps some stray internal organ which made its way there by chance. "I did."

"Up?" Nicky nods somewhere behind Joe, who watches the skin at the base of his throat stretch with the motion. His collarbone peeks out from this new shirt Joe hasn't seen before.

Somehow, he believes he must nod or telegraph movement. Gesture accomplished, he turns, quietly leading Nicky past reception and up the stairs to his room. He's no Orpheus and Nicky's no Eurydice, and he doesn't fumble the keycard at all.

He doesn't do much more than close the door behind him and look around from the now too-pristine bed to his luggage in the corner half-unpacked and in disarray before he's pushed against the wall by the door, Nicky's hands curled around his shoulders. He thinks he hears, "May I?" And it's definitely a question, because Nicky is staring at him expectantly from a very close distance, and Joe swears his eyes were lighter before, it must be the light in here, though the neon is soft and the curtains are still open.

Not something he should be pondering when Nicky is waiting for permission for _something_ , but Joe's one step away from gaping at him, and that would be unacceptable. Already his heart is in his throat, hoping this is what he thinks it is. He does manage a hopefully decisive nod, in a far more stilted way than he wanted, though it hardly matters the next second as Nicky closes the distance to kiss him.

Ah. Yes, _this_. He thinks he makes an odd noise at the back of his throat, but, when Nicky doesn't pull away, it all seems rather inconsequential. Nicky's rucksack falls to their feet, abandoned.

Both their lips are a little dry from being outside in the sun, and it's a little wetter than Joe normally prefers, but Nicky is warm at his front and his tongue is already licking inside, tilting Joe's head, deepening the kiss. And Joe's brain whispers something about how this is a little fast. How the curtains are still open. How the light, however soft, is switched on. Luckily, the rest of him is far more invested in kissing back, one hand holding Nicky steady at the waist while the other palms the side of his face.

The ends of his hair brush the back of Joe's hand. Something about this minute detail sparks him into a sudden forward movement, into pressing them impossibly closer at the front, not a centimetre of space between their chests and Joe's thigh finding a space for itself between Nicky's legs. The kiss is milky-sweet, probably from Nicky's after-meal coffee but with nothing of the bitterness. Beneath that, it's just the taste of a hot, wet mouth, skin and saliva and human warmth—and Joe can't rightly recall the last time he's ever enjoyed a single kiss this much. Can't be sure that's ever been the case.

Chemistry. That's what this is. This is what it means to have chemistry with someone. Pure sizzling want that's oddly unhurried, as if he could comfortably just do this for hours. The very thought echoes inside his head, swelling like a mosquito after a particularly hearty meal.

He's still wearing his unlaced trainers. His toes curl inside them, the insoles stiff and uncomfortable against his bare feet, tendons aching as the kiss deepens. His palm tightens around Nicky's face, cupping more of his jaw, and his other hand encircles his waist fully as he tries to balance on his feet to kick his shoes off. He succeeds in not toppling the both of them over, but Nicky captures Joe's momentum to move. For an instant Joe thinks it's to break the kiss; instead, Nicky's arms move down his back, fingers tracing his spine cord by cord, squeezing them together before walking them farther into the room than the immediate door area.

Eagerly following his lead, enjoying even the soft pressure at his back, Joe doesn't pretend the movement isn't slotting their hips together, his cock half-hard and brushing against Nicky's with every step. This is where they're headed. Hardly cooling off from his shower in this odd May weather, he already feels overheated and raw around the edges, tonguing the inside of Nicky's cheek, sucking on his tongue, angling his face to push in deeper.

He stops them suddenly, and, before Joe can think past how they probably stopped because of the bed, Nicky's disentangling from Joe's arms while turning them around, all within the span of a few seconds, in far fewer movements than Joe's brain is equipped to handle right now.

"What," he blinks. He doesn't have anything else. They should still be working out how to be with each other like this, his brain not yet caught up, even though his body is _there_.

Nicky's pupils are huge, barely rimmed with their normal speckled green colour. His face is pinked-up, his mouth a mess. "You have just showered, yes?"

The words make no sense. Or Joe is missing the context. Squinting liberally, he says, "Yes?"

Nicky nods, seemingly satisfied, then grips him at the waist and turns him around to press against him in the quickest movement yet, leaving Joe a little dizzy, but eager for the closeness, pressing back 

"Let me," he mutters, mouth brushing Joe's ear, and he can't nod quickly enough, willing to put himself in Nicky's hands.

This turns out to mean Nicky exhaling loudly before pushing him to the bed on his front, sinking down between his legs and pulling at his joggers, which Joe kicks eagerly off and away. Hearing him inhale at the sight of no underwear is a little complimentary, Joe can't lie, but whatever he could have said fades to no thoughts at all, just the feel of Nicky's warm palms drifting from hip bones over to his cheeks, pulling them apart to the pleasant evening air and the sudden feel of Nicky mouth diving in to press lips and tongue to his hole.

" _Oh,_ " he says, then moans in shock, then can't stop the sounds from coming. Little inhales and thin grunts as his body clenches around the tip of Nicky's tongue spreading him open.

He doesn't go slow. Joe claws at the sheets, a muffled grunt of _Nicky Nicky Nicky_ after he breaches him further, as if a switch has been pulled, quick and easy pokes becoming languorous licks inside, his lips puckering around the rim and sucking tightly. Joe mewls, his cock making a mess beneath him, but the buzzing inside his head dissipates enough when Nicky pulls back for him to hear him say, "Let me," which is ridiculous, because Joe already _is_. And, "Let me eat you out," which has him clenching around nothing and twitching at the front. And, "Let me suck you after, Joe, please."

Honestly, Nicky's lucky the _please_ doesn't do him in, although, when Nicky growls and nips at his hole and presses back in almost to the root of his tongue, drooling down his crack and teeth pressing into delicate skin, Joe decides he's the lucky one, shivers travelling down his spine like short electric shocks.

Although he wants to touch himself, he's so aware of Nicky's words echoing inside his head he doesn't even try. Wants him more than he wants his own hand. _Obviously._

When the wet heat of his mouth stops circling his rim and he moves away, leaving him empty and twitching, Joe will admit he makes the most embarrassingly anticipatory noise yet, a mix between a grunt and a moan, but does allow Nicky to turn him by his hips onto his back 

"Hey." Nicky's mouth is wrecked, and Joe can't stop looking at it. Doesn't know what he's supposed to say when Nicky's already outlined his intentions, so he again says, "Hey," shifting up the bed until his head hits the nearest pillow.

He watches as Nicky finally manages to kick his shoes off before slipping out of his shirt and jeans, stumbling forward up the bed and onto Joe, who groans and pulls him close by the shoulders for a kiss.

"Uh," Nicky says before they can touch. "After," which Joe can't protest. He nods, pressing his lips to the thin skin below one eye and then the other.

He watches Nicky nod to himself, then reach for his jeans, retrieving his wallet. In his feverish want, Joe can't help focusing on Nicky's movements as he drags the condom down Joe's cock, at the width of his palms as he holds him steady.

Once he's done, he drops his head between Joe's legs, hands parting his thighs. He asks once, "All right?" and waits for Joe's nod before he dives in to lave at his cock from base to tip, likely far from the best taste, before swallowing the head, cheeks curving inwards.

Toes curling hard enough Joe wouldn't be surprised later if they cramped, he hisses and tips his head backwards, the crown of his head knocking the pillow aside, pressing into the bed. He shivers and twists when Nicky's thumbs catch on the thin skin on the inside of his thighs, and almost chokes on his own spit when he swallows him deeper and deeper still until he hits the back of his throat, where Nicky keeps him until he moans himself ragged, which doesn't take long at all, it turns out.

That's about when he decides to start a sucking rhythm up and down as if he's been preparing for this since the moment they met, and, as much as Joe would love nothing more than to watch his throat, bared and taut as he works him over, and his lovely eyes Joe hasn't been able to ignore for even a second, he knows he's already too into this. It's too good.

It doesn't last long at all. Not that Joe expected it to, given the way he's feeling nearly unhinged. When he comes Nicky's got him down his throat, sucking at the base, fingers inching back near his hole, and Joe doesn't make a sound past a grunt as if he's been kicked in the solar plexus, muscles tensing and releasing all at once.

It takes him a fair amount of time to realise he's had his eyes closed. Upon opening them he sees Nicky standing at the other side of the bed, throwing the condom in the nearby bin, and finally stepping out of his underwear. He knees his way forward to lie by Joe's side, cock sore-looking and tender, wet at the tip.

Uncannily still, though his heart still feels ballooned inside his chest, he watches the open gape of Nicky's mouth as he takes himself in hand and strokes himself tightly at the head. His tongue is very pink where it brushes the edges of his teeth. His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut Joe idly wonders whether they hurt him. Unthinkingly, he reaches for his cheek, like before, his palm cradling his jaw, a gesture which startles them both, Nicky into opening up his eyes. And Joe can't imagine what he sees, but he scrunches his nose and bites at his lips, and finally comes into his hand and in weak steaks against Joe's hip bone, who hisses and shivers from head to toes. When Nicky drags his cockhead around in circles into the mess he made, Joe has to talk his dick out of trying to get hard again.

*

"Ah." That one sound has Joe's head snapping up from the tiny corner of the pillow he's managed to reach. "So what now?"

If Joe's being honest with himself, the question takes him completely by surprise because, not to put it too bluntly, he can't say he thought any of this through past kissing Nicky and making each other feel good, but, now that the afterglow is wearing off, it doesn't take him more than an instant to realise that even if he had he probably would have assumed this, right now, would be the end of it. Not _exactly_ in an arsehole sort of way, but more like, uh.

All right. He can't explain it without sounding like an arsehole even inside his own head, and he certainly won't say it out loud, but it's pretty clear they're both on holiday, that this was a casual encounter that, as lovely as it was, couldn't technically repeat itself. Not really. They're _on holiday_. This is all meant to be _easy_.

"You've done this before, yes?" Nicky tries, eyebrow cocked, looking both amused and slightly worried, and decidedly bored with waiting for an answer to his first question. Joe doesn't know which emotion he needs to take care of first, though hopefully the amusement is as good of a reaction as he's going to get. Meaning Nicky's still having some measure of fun here, even though Joe is making it weird by not speaking actual words.

Fighting a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, he soberly declares, "Yes, I've had sex before." That, at least, should be clear.

"That wasn't in doubt," Nicky says. And now he, too, looks as if he's trying very hard not to laugh, dimples standing out and eyes very bright.

Joe rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "And yes, I've had sex on holiday before." He takes a long breath. "And, usually, that's... it."

Thankfully, Nicky is standing to step into his underwear before sitting back at the end of the bed, consideringly staring at Joe with an expression that is raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Not in any case predatory, but disquieting nonetheless. For his part, Joe is glad at least one of them is making an effort at not being completely naked for this conversation, though Joe wishes suddenly that person were him.

He opens his mouth and closes it on an exhale. Finally, "I arrived today. I'm both exhausted and very awake. I didn't have a plan beyond playing the tourist and enjoying my first day here."

"That's it?" It's not accusatory, simply curious.

"That's it," Joe shrugs.

Nicky nods, more to himself than to Joe's words, and just as Joe is about to regret saying anything at all (though he has no clue what he could have said that wouldn't have made this awkward in some way or another), Nicky says, "Today, I woke up at six to go hiking." Joe blinks at the non sequitur. "And I only came back into the city, on foot no less, when we saw each other and you called out to me. Before, I had enough hunger I would have eaten the entire menu. My plan was to eat and to fall asleep with Netflix on my laptop."

"I like Netflix," Joe says moronically. Then blinks again, realising he's just been staring for the last minute.

"Good. I have my laptop. The hotel does not have a safe place to leave it."

"All right."

That's how they end up streaming an Italian series Joe isn't familiar with, thankfully with subtitles, and which Nicky assures him is based on real events, though Joe is generally ambivalent about that sort of thing. Although he's missing some context and he's not particularly interested in dramas about organised crime, he has to admit it's quite engrossing. The entire time they sit with their backs to the headboard, the laptop between them near their feet, and Joe's eyes never leave the screen even as he feels Nicky's on the side of his face.

After the first episode ends, Nicky leans in to click off and return to the main menu, saying, "Enough. The rest you will have to watch yourself."

Which isn't exactly what Joe thought he'd say. He's a little stunned, can't imagine this is the moment when Nicky will rise to finish getting dressed and finally leave. It would be the best thing if he did. A clean exit. A part of Joe is impressed with how smoothly Nicky made it not only less awkward but practically erased any of Joe's misgivings. If he left now, they'll both have only pleasant memories of an interesting afternoon that transitioned into a sexy evening ending on an early, comfortable note.

Yes, Joe is certainly impressed.

Eventually, Nicky does stand to scan the floor for his jeans and shirt. Joe should remind him his phone is on the nightstand by Joe's side of the bed before he leaves. He watches as Nicky finds his shirt first and shakes it once with a flourish, not that it looks wrinkled from where Joe's still sitting by himself.

For the life of him he doesn't know why he says it. He has to physically stop himself from cringing. "Do you know, uh, Gin rummy?"

Nicky turns, shirt held loosely in one hand, one arm already inside of it. Something flickers across his face, but it's gone too quickly for Joe to register more than a change in expression. "I know Gin, yes."

"Only... I bought a new pack of cards at the train station this morning." It's true. It's probably at the bottom of one of his bags. "I meant to use it as a distraction." Also true.

Lately, he's been using distractions more and more, something that isn't social media or e-mail or staring vacantly at a blank page in his sketchbook that's refusing to fill up with anything at all. Solitaire makes him feel less like he's about to crawl out of his own skin.

"I'll play," Nicky decides, abandoning the shirt. He does pass Joe his underwear, for which he is thankful, as being comfortably casually naked can only last so long, and shuffles the cards as Joe finds an empty piece of paper and a pen.

"We're playing for points," to which Nicky nods, and Joe exhales deeply, shoulders untensing.

They play seven rounds and Joe wins himself four, but they tally the points at the end, and it's clear Nicky is far better at this than him. Either that, or they're not particularly good at keeping score.

"Another?" Nicky asks, eyes bright.

"Stay the night," Joe says. He doesn't know how late or early it is, but Nicky should... stay.

He moves to draw the curtains the last of the way closed, and, by the time he turns around, Nicky says, "I'll stay."

They wash for bed, Joe lending him his spare toothbrush. He excuses himself for prayer, then turns the lamp off to slip into bed at Nicky's back.

*

He wakes with his alarm from a dream that's just now ending in sudden flashes behind his eyelids. The room is dark and Nicky is warm at his front, breathing deepening again as Joe quiets his phone and tries to blink himself awake.

Memories of his childhood are sometimes strikingly vivid, but, at other times, not so much. Too much like flashes for them to be anything other than episodic and only vaguely clinging together in his mind. When they come in dreams, they're always sudden, like hurricanes stitched together in a child's garland.

The room is chilled as Joe makes his way to the ensuite. He lingers over prayer, but the dream lingers as well, which shivers down his spine guiltily. He returns to the warmth of the bed, but his limbs feel colder than they should, somehow.

When his eyes open again, it's bright, everything standing out starkly, especially Nicky's face half-nestled into Joe's pillow, eyes at half-mast. They blink at each other, and Joe thinks maybe he's drifting off again, but when he opens his eyes more fully Nicky hasn't moved at all and the room hasn't changed.

"You were dreaming."

 _I know._ He says, "Yes."

Nicky doesn't pry, Joe's found out in less than a day; Nicky _waits_.

"It was a, uh." He closes his mouth with a loud clack and chews on his tongue for an indeterminate amount of time. He needs to brush his teeth and his eyelids would prefer closing back into sleep. "I dreamt my dog had..." He sighs. "He was lying behind the house, but I didn't want to go there because he was— I didn't want to dig the hole, you see," he says in a far less hesitant voice. That's the part he's certain about, that he knows for sure he dreamt about.

"I'm sorry." It's soft, and, from this close, his breath brushes Joe's face.

"I never had a dog."

He turns and leaves the bed, leaving a man he met less than a day ago lingering inside of it.

He closes the bathroom door to use the toilet, but cracks it open after he's done. It's a continuously tenuous space they inhabit. Joe might leave a door open, but Nicky doesn't have to walk through it.

As he's washing his face, Nicky joins him at the sink, frowning at the tube of toothpaste. Joe passes him his spare toothbrush again. "I should return to my hotel," he mutters, but he takes it and slathers it in toothpaste and watches himself brush very thoroughly in the large mirror above the sink. Joe watches him for a long moment, too, their eyes never quite locking, before Joe picks up his own brush.

Standing at the sink, like that, it's almost domestic. He spits, and Nicky spits, and the water from the faucet washes it away back to pristine porcelain.

In the shower they inevitably end up rubbing against each other, but Joe finds he enjoys the sloppy, wet kisses more, Nicky nipping at his jaw where his beard is growing in as he grips at his waist and strokes him leisurely.

*

As Nicky has no choice than to step into his clothes from yesterday, he laments having discarded them on Joe's floor. "I didn't bring much with me."

"Ask for a laundry service at your hotel," Joe suggests.

But Nicky's only response is, "Hmm," vaguely unconcerned. Or, perhaps, concerned with something else altogether.

Eventually, once they are both dressed, Nicky sitting at the end of Joe's bed to lace up his shoes, he says, "You said you would tell me, but you never did."

"Tell you?" Joe passes him a water bottle and opens one for himself.

Taking it, Nicky clarifies, "About seeing art."

"Finding reality trumps inventing it," Joe says simply.

He takes another swallow of water and brushes his mouth with the back of his hand. "What if you don't like what you find?" His look is serious suddenly, his eyes a little sad. Joe doesn't want to think about what that is or what it means.

"I used to try to make my paintings move. Did a degree in it and everything." It's not a change of subject, not really.

"Not anymore?" Joe shakes his head. "Why not?"

He doesn't have an answer that he's willing to verbalise easily, but he started this and he knows he'll regret it later if he stops Nicky from asking questions now.

"I wasn't, uh, content. Or happy. That's the word." He crosses his arms across his chest, nearly hugging himself. The water bottle he holds by the cap to hang by his side. Across from him, sunshine is already peeking from behind the half-open curtains from the balcony.

 _Are you happy now?_ He expects it. Essentially, he set him up for it. It wouldn't even be prying, not really.

Instead, Nicky asks, "How is it going?" words carefully measured. He stares at Joe's face expectantly, legs splayed, leaning back on his palms on the bed, and Joe wishes he knew what Nicky is seeing there. What Joe's face is doing.

It's not going. It's far from going. But that sounds worrying to his own ears. Can't imagine what it would sound like to a person he's known for less than a day. It annoys him that he keeps coming back to that in relation to Nicky, but it's true.

Instead, he chews on the inside of his cheeks and swallows a mouthful of saliva, hoping he sounds coherent when he says, "Yesterday, before we met, I went to a museum. One of those reconditioned buildings that probably used to be someone's house decades ago. And, you know... I thought that it should have reminded me of home." He chews on his bottom lip briefly. "All of these old buildings in good condition sold off to become museums and galleries, and bars and restaurants, and I felt like an outsider looking in, a pane of glass in front of my face at every step. I walked that room with people's art on the walls, and I didn't—"

"Tell me," he repeats when Joe stalls in continuing.

"Nothing." And he means, _I didn't feel anything._ Says, "You know, I've been trying the entire time travelling to push myself, but it didn't happen. Not one picture. Not one sketch. You know, it doesn't matter, drawing on a train is crap, but you get worried it's never going to happen again."

"What should happen?"

He sighs. "Anything at all."

"But you asked me yesterday," he points out.

Joe frowns, unsure where he's heading towards. "Oh, I always ask," he says airily. "Even for a drawing." At Nicky's perplexed look, he explains, "I put myself in the shoes of the person, and I know _I_ wouldn't want to be used like that." Wouldn't want to see what someone else sees, but he doesn't care to say as much out loud, but Nicky's eyes narrow before he can turn the conversation around somehow.

"Draw me, then."

"What?" Although he genuinely should stop saying that, dreading that he's picked up an unfortunate habit in only a few days, there hasn't been a more adequate occasion to ask the question.

Nicky waves him off. "I give you permission." He's not sitting particularly stiffer than before, but Joe thinks maybe there is a line of tension running through his body. A muscle tensed specifically for the next words out of Joe's mouth.

 _I don't want to._ He says, "All right," and hasn't felt as awkward picking up a pencil in literal decades.

He's acutely aware he hasn't drawn anything for so long he can hardly remember exactly what his last finished piece even was. He tries not to think about what this one will end up as. Whether Nicky will like it. Whether Joe will. In the end, he can't decide which should matter, and Nicky's standing up to be positioned where Joe needs him. He sits him against the wall, on the floor, which Nicky says he doesn't mind, sunshine streaming through the open balcony to light up part of his face from the side. Joe sits on the bed and tries not to overthink it, tries to imagine he's holding the Nikon, hand steadying the frame from below.

The silence, but for the scratching of the pencil on paper, is periodically interrupted by the sounds of traffic and people from outside. Wednesday seems to be similarly busy to Tuesday, and the day appears to be even hotter than the one before. Joe finishes, for a value of finish he doesn't want to quantify, four sketches of Nicky's face, all from the same angle, all on the same page, and if he doesn't want to burn it by the end, then surely that must be what success feels like, right?   
Nicky, for his part, doesn't ask to see what Joe has wrought, and Joe isn't sure how he feels about that either.

Afterwards, sketchbook packed and pencil out of sight, Nicky points out, rather annoyingly accurately, that Joe did cross a big chunk of continent in order to visit at least some part of the city that doesn't involve either of their respective beds. Instead, before Joe can stupidly agree, he suggests hiking, which Joe isn't strictly speaking opposed to. Only...

"I don't know that I want to climb any mountains at noon."

"Perhaps a hill?"

They climb a hill.

*

They waste some of the day together, and then they part for the evening, but Nicky asks him to join him in _his_ room, where he orders them food, a proper hotel with room service, and they eat on the bed in their underwear, laughing at each other. Neither mentions sketches or photography or Joe's early train or Nicky's uncertain work prospects.

Joe doesn't spend the night, and Nicky doesn't ask him to, but he promises he'll wait for him at seven o'clock, dew still clinging to the asphalt, to walk him to the train station after Joe expresses how he enjoyed the walk on his arrival, how he enjoys a good parallel. Nicky pretends to be shocked and inconvenienced, but, when Joe exits the hostel a few minutes to seven, his rucksack already on his back and his camera bag in his hands, he's waiting with fresh coffee in to-go containers and more apple strudel.

His train is set to depart at a quarter after eight, therefore there is no conceivable reason why they should not take their time. Nicky offers to carry the bag containing his camera and whatever else he stuffed inside alongside it that morning, and Joe is relishing the gesture despite himself.

As expected, they arrive early. They stop to sit on a secluded bench in the park across from the station, luggage by their feet. Nicky kisses him, dry and nearly chaste, and of all the things Joe doesn't know how he should feel about, there's no reason to deny this is the one that is making his chest clench and unclench uncomfortably tightly, has been since yesterday, since the morning with Nicky on the floor and the sun on his face.

Then they part in order to walk on so Joe can catch his train, which he does without even a moment of stress. They wave only once as the platform fades into nothing.

*

Unironically, Joe truly does enjoy airports. Arriving early is a given for him.

However, it also means there's no excuse left not to resolve what he's been putting off for days: the moment when he has to check his e-mails and his messages and, very likely, ring Andy up before he's forced to have this conversation face to face after nearly a week's absence.

*

Early afternoon, and Andy is waiting for him at the Arrival Gate at Schiphol. Joe doesn't so much stop in his tracks as stumble over his own feet. Their conversation had been brief, a mere acknowledgement that Joe had read the countless e-mails detailing Upstream's concerns regarding his next exhibit, before he had to beg off in order to catch his flight. Tone over the phone, especially with Andy, is always difficult to ascertain. Right now, she smiles, not unkindly, and, like Nicky hours before, she offers to take his bag.

"Good flight?"

Unless he wants to get trampled, Joe can only afford to side-eye her for the length of a second at best. "Average."

"I'm sorry for you." She's smirking, but Joe doesn't want to risk giving her the finger.

Outside, she guides him to her car. "Am I being kidnapped?" Not for anything, but there's a solid chance her licence might have expired and she's risking it because throwing Joe off a cliff takes priority. Honestly, Joe cannot for the life of him remember the last time he saw her drive.

"Get in, please," she says, placing his bag on the backseat, not looking at him. She doesn't sound overly polite, simply tired.

He opens the door to the back to leave his rucksack next to the bag, then gets in front, buckling the seatbelt in one gesture. He waits for her to finish buckling hers before closing the car door. The thump is loud, leaving an immediate absence of sound in its wake.

Neither speaks for the length of three songs on the radio whose lyrics Joe couldn't recall under threat of death. By the time the fourth is starting, Joe doesn't think he'll ever find the words to start talking.

Andy does it for the both of them.

"You haven't missed your deadline yet, and I don't want you to have to." Her eyes never move from the road.

Joe thinks about the SD card he decided to erase just as his plane was taking off. He thinks about pressing the button, Nicky's last remaining picture fading into the settings menu on the camera as the flight attendant was asking him to place his bag in the overhead compartment. He thinks about the page from his sketchbook he left behind folded beneath his empty coffee cup in the Starbucks at the airport as he rose to board the plane.

"You're right, Boss." It's not facetious. He's simply stating the truth, and they both know it. "What now?"

Sighing, Andy overtakes a FlixBus and then one of those tiny Smarts. " _Tentatively_ ," she emphasises, "next spring could be an option. We have something planned for April."

"Eleven months."

"Well," she says, "the deadline is after the New Year, but I'd like to check in earlier with you, mid-autumn. No offence." She finally shoots him a look from the corner of her eye, the road mostly empty around them. Joe can only smile.

*

He doesn't regret the pictures or the sketches, as such, but his brain has decided perhaps he imagined the entire thing. No handsome stranger from Italy filling his days. No sex, no spending the night together, no Gin rummy, and especially no laughter. His skin is still a touch raw from being out in the sun, and even that causes him to stop and stare and try to remember every snarky retort as they climbed a hill overlooking the city, both parched yet oddly happy for the view and the walk and the company.

That's when he knows he needs to go outside. Get himself some fresh air. Clear his thoughts.

*

May turns into June, and Joe doesn't have a reason to stay in the city. Moreover, his parents have been slyly mentioning a short visit, and Joe does miss the sea air around The Hague. He misses many things.

Considering it is one thing, but he owes Andy a definitive answer, but April and the New Year and mid-autumn seem too close, eleven months having already turned into ten, with nothing to show for it but a pile of reference books by his bed and an afternoon of shopping for inks and a set of extra-fine nibs which are set to arrive sometime in the following week.

A feeble spark turned vague idea does not a project make, although Joe has managed more with less. Honestly, walking on eggshells around himself is more exhausting than staring through the viewfinder for hours without feeling the need to ever shoot a single frame.

The words "cautiously optimistic" seem tentatively adequate here.

*

By the end of the week he's made more telephone calls to the gallery than he's made in their entire working relationship. ("Are you sure I can't interest you in typing a _very long_ and thorough e-mail instead?" Andy tries after the third time Joe keeps her on the phone past her lunch break. She stops asking once he hints she might find him on her doorstep sometime soon if ringing each other up isn't working for her.)

The day he actually shows up at the gallery he has a definitive reason which requires more than a phone to communicate.

A big part of him has been trying with some measure of success to talk him out of this for weeks now, but he's got his sketchbook with him, which is tangible evidence that he isn't about to waste either his time or hers. He isn't interested in making promises he can't keep of an exhibit he might not be able to put on after all, but Andy deserves an answer and he wants to give it to her while someone's still asking for it.

The fear isn't so much that she'll say no (she won't) or that she'll be disappointed (she's never been yet), but that she'll one day simply stop asking at all. As much as Joe would love nothing more than to deliver piece after piece until his dying breath, that's hardly reasonable. But he thinks never getting to show something of his, completed to his liking, something he _can't look away from_ —that's the part he can't stand.

*

Afterwards, he'll remember her face as she traced the inked lines. Her smile as she said, _Ten months, Joe._

Now, he wanders onto the next street over, uncertain whether he should go home or grab a late lunch or find himself a narrow street down which to get lost until his wildly beating heart finally quiets.

He doesn't know how he ends up near the VU, but there are shops with good coffee aplenty. He stops to pick up a latte from Doppio, not his favourite, but perhaps he needs the relentless student crowds to ground him.

As he enters the coffee bar, he almost laughs at his own pun, holding the door open for the person who's about to exit past him. Only, just like that first time, their eyes lock, this time too close, and Joe thinks _Nicky_ before he walks into the doorframe headfirst.

*

Nicky holds out a bottle of water between them, indicating Joe should drink it.

"I'm not concussed." He shakes his head, which is a mistake. He shifts on the bench. It's not the most comfortable.

Nicky scoffs. "I didn't say you were. Drink your water."

" _Your_ water," but he takes it and drinks. Eventually he says, "How are you here?"

After a long moment Nicky says, "One of your universities wanted me." He shrugs, almost looking embarrassed. "I didn't mean— Uh." He inhales deeply, and Joe waits him out. "This is a strange coincidence."

"Yes, it is," Joe nods. His head doesn't hurt that badly when his heart is back to being a wild, beating thing.

They stare, standing their ground. Well... sitting. Nicky looks the same in a jacket and a plain shirt and plain jeans and nothing at all different other than how there's not enough sun to shine off him here. Joe never thought he'd miss it this much.

"I deleted the pictures," Joe mutters. Nicky's eyes sharpen. "And I don't have your sketches anymore." He doesn't say what happened to them. "I didn't think I'd know you anymore." He swallows. He's been drinking his water, yet he feels parched.

"You don't remember me?" Nicky's smile is coy, but the light-heartedness stops firmly right beneath the surface. As if he believes Joe genuinely forgot who he was.

His heart is veritably galloping inside his ribcage as he fights against his face's propensity towards worrying expressions and unattractive flushing.

He _knows_ his heart is nothing but a child—wanting, needing, thrashing, clawing. He knows it like he knows Nicky's face, confidently sketched and inked, pages in a binder sitting in his bag right now.

So he says, "The moon is a stranger compared to you. Stars, comets, clouds—they're all up there. I don't care about any of them."

"Is that so?"

Mouth crashing against Nicky's, teeth bumping, the kiss is a frantic mess of bad angles and dry lips. They both breathe in sharp little intakes of breath that couldn't possibly provide even remotely enough oxygen. Entirely pointless. Joe can't get enough of them, almost panting, his lungs seemingly working at capacity.

The first night, their kisses smeared against skin raw from the sun were wet and messy, too. But Nicky didn't recoil. Nicky never recoils.

Nicky _leans in_.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing the longest story you've ever managed to finish for your fandom about burnout while going through it yourself? Do not recommend! :D
> 
> But, seriously, I'm grateful you made it this far. If you enjoyed this read, please consider leaving kudos and comments. Would love to know what you thought. Stay safe, dear hearts!
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
